Two Sides Of The Same Coin
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: Back in an era picking up after WWII and the Cold War and thrown right into swinging influence of fashion and rock n' roll, Ben Holmes, an unmotivated slacker, met a girl high above all he'd ever known inside the shiny soap bubble of his life. He taught her to love London and she taught him the rest, turning his life around completely. *This is the backstory on the Holmes parents*
1. College's Over

Ben yawned, and leant back in his chair, one eye open and steady on the alarm clock about to strike 12 midnight. It had been so many torturously long minutes since his last milestone half an hour ago. He cast an eye over his study desk, on which lay, among the Management and Economics books, countless Marvel comic books, and an "action" figure of Fred Flintstone clad in a Superman costume with cheese fries and a hamburger in his hands. A model of a lovely James Bond-style Aston Martin sat on his alarm clock with a few Lego bricks strewn about. He looked down at his notebook, and found that instead of studying for tomorrow's final year Economic History exam, he had been drawing Shaggy and Scooby.

He sighed sadly and looked longingly at the alarm. Even he had to admit to himself that he had studied absolutely nothing till now. Economic History was by far the hardest subject for him, excluding economics, of course, and it needed serious studying and moreover so much concentration, and he had done nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. He usually passed the exams somehow, by God's grace or by some inherent genius deep inside his brain. His friends thought that it was the latter. Only Ben knew that it was the former.

He shook his head as the alarm clock went off, signalling the one hour break between the half-hour study sessions. He needed to study. And not think about what was happening in Vietnam, or some of his peers congregating in the LSESU Room gymnasium even after midnight. He could do that the next day.

But not the congregating part. He sometimes wished his father had not listened to his mother and at least let him stay in the halls with Randy and the other boys. But then he remembered that he would have to do his own work—and daunting words like _cleaning_ and _washing_ came to his memory at this point—so he was satisfied that he stayed in his own house with a houseboy and a cook and a maid and a gardener and a the-bloke-who-came-and-washed-their-cars-with-streaming-water-that-Ben-loved.

Ben set to cleaning his workspace. He folded his comics and the photography magazine and sent them flying away towards the other corner of his room. Seeing a couple of crisps lying on the table, he put them into his mouth and sighed in satisfaction.

Time to study.

With a dull thud, a textbook called _A Brief Review of Economic History through the 19th Century_ was set on the table, a half-eaten pencil between its pages serving as a bookmark. He stared at it for some time, wondering how it had got there. He thought back to how it had arrived inside the textbook then further, tracing right back to where he had bought it. This technique of remembering the tracks of insignificant things was very useful; a little trick which meant he never misplaced his things, and could easily see when something was out of place. At least this was more interesting than studying, even if the last examination of his college life was next day. Then he remembered that he really needed some coffee, so he went to fetch some from the kitchen, returning to his room determined to do some work.

For fifteen minutes, he studied diligently. The sixteenth minute set in, and he found himself drawing Fred and Wilma on a number ten that he had encountered in his textbook. Thoroughly bored, he leaned back in his chair again, and looked up at his bulletin board. Full size posters of Pele and George Best were hung beside the board, along with a stop sign on a blue coloured crocodile and various posters of cars and bikes tacked up against the bulletin. Next to them, countless little photographs from Ben's wonderful university life surrounded a full size poster of Mick Jagger during one of his live performances.

Ben gave them all a cheeky grin, and bent his neck to lean over his textbook. He resolutely took the pencil between his fingers and circled the first statement that met his eye, without processing it at all.

"Returns outwards," he chanted the statement, "The economic reforms that took place in. . ."

History was boring, and economic history, more so. How could he be bothered about learning something that had lapsed into oblivion long before he had even been born?

Bored, again, this time he curled up in his armchair and gazed at the ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark stars were juxtaposed upon countless photographs, all of them beautifully capturing life in London. He smiled dreamily up at them, remembering the moments when he had taken every single one of them.

He loved his life. With being a part of LSESU and his cartoons, his friends and soccer. And not to mention his camera and his car.

The alarm rang out again, and Ben stretched. He had completed ten questions. He had not even expected to get through three. Deciding that he had done plenty of work, he thought he'd take an hour's break. Grabbing chocolate and peanut butter from the refrigerator to eat while he was relaxing – he could always cheekily blame it on someone else after all – he threw himself on the bed, and grabbed his comics, laughing at the funny bits as he browsed through them. In another minute, he had had enough of them, and reached out for his new camera, capturing in detail the general mess in his room, his mis-matched socks against the horribly patterned bed sheet that his mum had bought him.

He played with his football, threw open the window and enjoyed the breeze blowing through his hair, as carefree and breezy as his life. When the clock struck two, he gritted his teeth and groaned with weariness. He heaved a heavy sigh and dragged himself back to the desk. It was surprising to see how clean his desk was in comparison to the rest of his room. He took a long sip of the now-cold coffee and settled down to study again, his agenda to read for the whole night still standing true.

It only took him a couple more Tom and Jerry sketches on an 'I' and a 'o' in small letters for his forehead to collapse against his books in sleep.

* * *

Soft morning light hit Ben's face as he slept peacefully through the heavy knocking on his door. Finally waking, he wiped away the drool dribbling down the crook of his arm and rubbed his eyes. It was the exam day. As his vision cleared, his eyes focussing on his wristwatch, he sprang up from his chair, his muscles aching from a night of uncomfortable sleep. He stretched and went to throw the bedroom door open. Tim, the houseboy was knocking furiously with his breakfast, perfectly British, on one arm, one eye on the clock hung over beside the bulletin boards.

"What the hell, Tim?!" he managed to shout, as he hurriedly took off his T-shirt and trousers , and stood there in his boxers. Tim averted his eyes. No matter how much he had grown up into almost an adult, finishing university, Ben still had no clue about personal space or boundaries. He would happily have stood stark naked in the street and still care only about capturing the scene with his camera.

"Why didn't you wake me _sooner_?"

"You said you'd be up all night studying—" Tim started weakly. In retrospect, he had said that, but that was no excuse. He fixed him with a glare and put on a decent shirt, and a pair of denim trousers. Tim stared at the five coffee mugs standing to attention in a line on the floor.

"You were sleeping?" He asked disbelievingly, "Even after _five_ cups of coffee, you were still sleeping?!"

"As enlightening as your observations might be," he fished around for his pen and his car keys, "I'm really not in the mood."

With that, he grabbed the toast, without even muttering a "Thanks," to Tim, and dashed off, munching on the toast; Tim calling after him to slow down lest he should choke on his food. Ben knew better. He never choked on his food. He was that talented.

"Best of luck!" Tim shouted after him.

* * *

The exam was hard. Of course it was hard. Examinations held by London School of Economics was always hard, if nothing else. Ben felt like he was the only entrant who was spending more of his time thinking than writing. To his left, right, in front and behind, the sound of pens whirring across the paper was like the scratch of fingernails on a chalkboard to him. He glanced at his paper, now full of cartoon characters, courtesy of his drawing skills. He had attempted ten questions out of thirty, and he smiled, thinking that he was certainly going to pass. He turned back to page one, only to discover that all those questions were only worth one mark each.

He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, whining to himself why in the Devil's lovely name had he not studied last night? He had no idea what was going to happen to him. . .

"Nothing!" came a voice from the front of the room, right in the examination hall. "There's nothing to be done with you, Benjamin Holmes!" snapped a girl. Ben rubbed his eyes, wondering if staying up all last night, or the daunting question paper in front of him was inducing hallucinations. "Debra?"

Debra, a down-to-earth, studious, nerdy girl with a near-murderous expression turned around to face him. She always seemed to hate him, and Ben wondered what he had ever done to her. "You're definitely going to fail this exam! You haven't attended a single lecture all year, you spent the entire Lent term protesting against installation of security gates and you expect to pass? You deserve to fail!"

Ben cowered. She was right. Damn right, as much as he hated to admit it. He wished he could shut a door in her face. Any door.

"But you don't need to worry," Ben turned his head away from her, towards another nerdy boy who was usually top of the class. He, too, had turned around to grace him with a lecture right in the middle of an examination, "Who cares if you fail, man? Your dad's still gonna be rich as shit, and you'll get through somehow, right?"

Ben gritted his teeth. Just because his dad owned a company didn't mean that he wanted to be dependent on him, did it?. . . Well, except for the occasional top-up and the long, _long_ credit card statements banging on his doorstep like a policeman banging on the door prior to an arrest.

"Oi! Shut up!" One of his best friends, Lizzie, a fat girl with a cute hairstyle, turned around, and hit the boy on the head with her steel ruler. Ben smirked thankfully at that. Lizzie always came to his rescue with her sweet smile and her confidence-inducing words. Ben sometimes wondered why she hung out with a moron like him.

"Don't worry Ben," she said, "Don't listen to these stupid people. Just ignore them! I'm your friend, and I know you're going to pass, just like you do every year, right?"

Ben nodded gratefully at that. He loved her so much.

"By the way," she turned back towards him again, this time with a more stern expression on her face. "Where the hell were you last night? I tried to phone you so many times, do you have any idea? Did you go off with those gymnasium boys again?"

_And here we go_, Ben thought. Although he loved her, he hated it when she became a little too worried about his academics.

"You know they're all _homosexuals,_ Ben! How can you be so careless?" She went on shrilly, pronouncing "homosexual" as if they were supposed to be purged from the face of the earth. Ben really didn't like that thought at all. "What if they give you "the disease"? And did you read those notes?" she asked, now turning fully to him, "The ones that _I_ lent you—?"

"Shut up, Lizzie!" Ben finally turned to his best friend, his other half, his brother and everything that he couldn't express in mere words: Randy. His father owned a repair garage, and Ben often hung out there, helping his best friend with some of the cars because that's as far as he liked "legwork" to go. "At least stop lecturing us in the exam hall," Randy continued before turning to him, and smiling sheepishly.

"Don't worry, bro. My situation is much the same as yours. Even I couldn't study all night."

Randy turned to Gloria, the love of _his_ life, and Ben rolled his eyes at the melodramatics. Seriously, in a world where Pink Panther, James Bond and Rolling Stones co-existed, how could one even think about girls? He cast his eye over at Gloria: super thin, super dumb (although she couldn't be _that_ dumb, Ben thought, not if she had got into London School of Economics, even by the luckiest chance). The sort of girl who draws hearts over everything, be it her 'i' or not. Once Ben had snapped and told her that the symbol of heart was actually the symbol of a woman's buttocks bending over. She had simply frowned at him, and asked him what "buttocks" meant. _That_ had been his breaking point, and before he could explain it to her, Randy had shoved him away and had taken his "innocent" girlfriend in his arms and kissed her so that she forgot all about the incident.

Although, Ben was sure that Gloria knew about "buttocks" meant; she just put up that charade of oh-so-innocent to please Randy and moreover to irritate Ben. Because, apparently, everything was about Ben.

"I was with Gloria yesterday. We studied together," he stared longingly at something in the ceiling. Ben suspected that they had become intimate last night, but the next second he thought that Gloria was probably too dumb to understand her boyfriend's moves on her.

"She studied, and I was simply watching her. . . all night long."

And had Ben mentioned that Randy was a hopeless romantic? Oh Lord!

He was very relieved when Randy snapped out of his reverie, and turned back to Ben, "Anyway, if we're going to fail, we'll fail together, bub. Been with you since prep, haven't I?"

Ben felt surprisingly happy and secure all of a sudden, and he extended his hand forward to punch his arm playfully, only to see Randy writing steadily on his paper. He looked around him. Everyone was writing; no one had been talking to him at all. It had just been the voices of the people in his mind, from the person who hated him the most to the person who loved him the most.

The invigilator had warned them that five minutes were remaining just four minute and fifty nine seconds ago, and as Ben jolted back to his senses, he asked them to put their pens down. Randy finally looked up from his paper with a weary groan and his first glance was towards Ben, who was watching him nervously, the anxiety roiling deep in the pit of his stomach. With a slight, understanding bob of his head, Randy asked him how the exam had gone. In return, Ben could only give him a fake smile to tell him that it had been alright. Randy smiled back genuinely, and began marking his supplementary sheets. 1. . . 2. . . 3. . . 4. . .

"Stop writing, please!" came the invigilator's strict voice.

* * *

"Hey, hey, guys," Debra, the nerdy girl ran, as excited as a girl with her first kill during a hunting trip in the wild in order to prove herself to a guy who thought that girls couldn't handle it. "Farewell party, I want all of you to come, okay?"

She passed colourful fliers to whoever cared to listen to her, waving them around as if they were little surprises from Santa. Ben pulled his pencil case out of his bag as she wove towards them.

"Farewell party tomorrow night from half-past seven near the Bankside halls. no absentees okay?"

In her enthusiasm, she crashed into Ben, knocking the case out of his hand. It burst open, scattering pens and pencils at his feet, and he just stared at her, wondering why she was always so hostile to him.

To his surprise, she bent down and gathered it all up, handing it to him along with a flier, "Farewell party tomorrow night, Bankside halls, from half-past seven. Please do come!"

With that, however, she stormed off, her good mood clearly gone to tempest. He growled incoherently and screwed up the flier into a ball, plopping down on the seat between Lizzie and Randy.

"Dunno what's wrong with Debbie? She's always so annoyed with me and I don't even know what I've done."

Lizzie simply patted his arm sympathetically, "God knows. . . So, are you going to come to the party?"

The corners of Ben's lips quirked, and he threw a sulk, "No way! It's going to be _so _boring, with Debbie and her nose-in-the-air, and—"

"Shut up, Ben! You have to come! You know, maybe after tomorrow, you'll never get to see anyone from around here. College is over."

"I couldn't be more glad," he snapped, and she rolled her eyes dramatically.

"I can't believe our years at uni are over," she said. "I mean, after all those riots and all that Students' Union drama—sorry Ben," she grinned guiltily when Ben scrunched up his face and refused to talk to her, "—over Adams and those security gates, I thought that the year was never going to end!"

"Of course, it was going to end," Ben said, with a roll of his eyes. "The School couldn't remain closed forever, could it? At any rate, the Vietnam War issue was equally important. You really should look up from your textbooks and at the world stage, Lizzie. A chap committed _suicide_ over it!"

"World?" She sneered, "You didn't even know that the NASA were sending a man up to the moon, how do you care about the _world?!"_

Ben simply rolled his eyes. "I hate astronomy. . . and moons. I'd rather go and close the gates of the Old Building and sit there until Her Majesty the Queen came up and—"

"That's what you ended up doing the whole year, Ben!" she chided like a mother, but not like _his_ mother. "You just got caught up in stupid student activism and—!"

"Shh!" Ben hushed her down. "D'you want them to tear you apart before you get a job or whatever it is you studied for?"

"They can't kill me for voicing my opinions!" She declared, as Ben muttered a "irrelevant opinion" under his breath. "I do have that right according to the law of this country."

"Of course, you do, love. You and your bloody British laws! Did you know that it was illegal to die in the Houses of the Parliament? That's your British Law!"

She stared at him for sometime, perhaps wondering how irritating he could be sometimes or being bewildered over the factoid that he told her. With a huff, she went back to whatever she was doing. Ben bit into a scone and made more noise than normal purposefully, just to annoy her.

"Three years have just passed in a blur," Randy exclaimed out of the blue as he sat down beside them, sans Gloria for the first time. "And now, I'm finally free. There's just so much to do that I haven't done till now."

"Yeah," Lizzie began excitedly, biting into a cream-loaded cupcake and completely forgetting about her argument-of-sorts with Ben. "Now that exams are over, I can finally start on my diet."

Randy and Ben watched her bite into another cream cupcake for an awkward beat. It was Ben who took the initiative.

"No, no, my love," he snatched the cupcake from her fingers, shaking his head and giving her a fond, knowing smile.

"Just a little," she promised, pouting. "Only one bite, I'll start the diet from tomorrow, please," Ben reached out and patted her cheek, "Why do you need to diet, love? I'm going to be there to marry you later, aren't I?"

She screwed up her face and shook his playful hand away, the corners of her mouth quirking in amusement, "Please! Don't be silly."

"Yeah," Randy snorted. "If she likes bottoming all the time!"

Lizzie's eyes narrowed, and she threw one of her assorted milk chocolates in his direction, her lip curling with disgust. He recoiled a bit, and then bit into it, "Oh this is _good_!"

"We two BFFs going to live happily ever after. You worry about your own sweetie, mister," Ben smirked, draping an arm across Lizzie's shoulders, as she giggled, both of them gazing amusedly at something behind Randy's head. He turned, and saw Gloria cutting holes into her top, right over the peak of her breasts as other boys watched. Ben and Lizzie snorted with laughter as Randy scrambled from his seat and ran towards her. Ben saw a small package lying on Randy's side of the table. Upon opening it, he was astonished to find an engagement ring sitting inside, with an engraving of "Gloria" on the inside.

"Oh, he can't be serious!" Lizzie exclaimed.

"I hope not. . . she's worse than a donkey!"

As they saw Randy drag his girlfriend over to them, Ben hastily tucked the ring inside Randy's bookbag, and pretended to play happy couples with Lizzie. He wondered what he was going to do. Everyone was planning their lives around him, and he was still living in a house of cards, ready to fall apart at the slightest provocation. But he couldn't help it, could he?

When it came down to it, he loved his life, just the way it was.

"Since when did Randy become serious?!" he whispered in her ear.

She thought it through, "Maybe. . . I suppose it's time for all of us to be. . . serious, y'know, with college over and all that?" She directed her words to all of them, and although her words flew right past Ben, he followed Randy's lead and nodded in stiff acknowledgement. Gloria gave him a diabetes-inducing smile, and Ben smiled back awkwardly, wondering what sort of a person could afford such a smile.

"Yeah. . ." Ben nodded, "This time, I'm very serious, you know. . . I've made a very serious plan."

Randy and Lizzie exchanged sceptical looks. Serious Ben. . . a deadly oxymoron. "And. . . what's that?"

"Let's go and get drunk," he offered simply, as if it were obvious. Immediately, his friends gave a groan, "Ben. . ."

"So, I'm being serious, you see? You two are going to be old at thirty," he rose up from his chair, "I mean, college is over today. Who cares about what's gonna happen tomorrow. . . as long as we can have some fun? Tonight! Come on!"

Lizzie and Randy watched as Gloria sided with Ben for the first time, "I agree with Ben. We should go out tonight!"

He nodded awkwardly, "Yeah, Gloria. . . thanks for. . . sticking up for me. So, you coming?"

His friends shared a look of 'alright', and they sped away out of the cafeteria with Ben leaping happily into the air and sliding down the banister of the staircase as Debbie and the studious ones watched murderously. Randy and Gloria followed him enthusiastically, followed by a panting Lizzie, ready to tour London in Ben's Thunderbird.

* * *

**Notes for anything that might not be clear or familiar to you:**

**1) Ben studies(d) in LSE (London School of Economics), but since his dad's rich and has connections pretty much everywhere (you can almost consider him a Mycroft Holmes in business), he made Ben stay and study from home, commuting to the college by car everyday (he's rich, of course he's got a car.**

**2)LSESU: Stands for LSE Students' Union. It was a completely accident that Ben's summer term in LSE ends in 1969, coinciding with the riots that took place in LSE over the appointment of Walter Adams as the Director and over the Vietnam War, so the snippets of conversation between Lizzie and Ben allude to that.**

**TO BE CONTINUED! Please review, even if it's all the bad things or the good things you want to tell me about this! :)**


	2. A New Face In An Old London

Ben ignited the engine of his Thunderbird convertible and set zooming out of the campus car park, hoping that this would be the second-last time he would have to set his eyes upon the hellish place his dad had chosen for him. He tried not to think about the final day, the last day he would have to cross the threshold of that place from which his father and his grandfather, had both graduated from, instead focussing on the roundabout he had to take before they were all free birds, the quartet of himself, Randy, Lizzie and Gloria.

Randy opened a soft drinks can and poured half of it down his shirt as he tried to pass it to Ben, making the three of them double up with laughter at Randy's indignant face. Randy retaliated by emptying the marshmallow packet onto Lizzie's curly hair, causing Lizzie to retaliate with a similar attack on his Beatles-styled hair as she punched his biceps playfully. They whizzed through Westminster, everything on the street a crazy, happy blur as Ben sped past unsuspecting people, often driving straight at them, only swerving away at the last moment, just for the hell of it and much to Lizzie's disapproval. Gloria suggested that they play a game of who could fit the greatest number of lollies into their mouths. Naturally, Randy won because Ben was busy driving, but this only caused Ben to throw a massive sulk and refuse to drive safely, which obviously made him the winner, as always.

Chewing on a lozenge, he did a double take at Lizzie, who was going through his exam question paper with the most serious expression on her face at the sheer number of cartoons drawn on every single letter or number that even remotely resembled something else. He reached towards his damned paper where it sat on Lizzie's lap in the back seat, and with a disgusted expression, handed it to Randy, who threw it out of the car. The papers flew about in the wind, sticking to the windscreens of some of the cars behind them, narrowly avoiding causing a pileup.

Their drivers were not amused.

They headed towards a restaurant somewhere in Soho and settled in the booth they always took, with Ben laughing at Gloria's recounting to them about how her cat had fallen off the cupboard for the tenth time that month. Gloria's cat was as stupid as its owner, he declared and Randy tried to reprimand him, but even he wasn't very adept at hiding his amusement.

Ben was on the verge of telling Gloria about Randy's impending proposal, only to stop when they saw a grim-looking adult murmuring something about the degradation of society and glaring pointedly at them and their obnoxious talking and snorting with food in their mouths. They sobered up for an excruciatingly long minute, eating their food quietly. One look at each other set them right off again.

Then they darted straight into marathon shopping in Carnaby Street. Ben and Randy bought loads of clothes, stupid stuff and games, all financed by the credit card Ben had in his wallet, along with the girls who bought almost a competitive amount of clothes and dresses for themselves. Randy wanted to get into the dressing room along with Gloria but she shut the door in his face and some of the women who had heard their conversation sent glares in his direction. Ben spent most of his shopping time checking his teeth for plaque in a fancy makeup mirror while the salesgirl looked at him weirdly, and scaring the hell out of Lizzie by popping up in front of her out of the various oversized dresses that she was checking out even though none of them looked like they might fit her.

"I am Richmond Holmes, the Great and Terrible!" Randy declared when he came out of the dressing room, wearing his underwear outside his trousers like Batman, except that he was in a three-piece that looked like it had been made for him. Lizzie and Gloria laughed maniacally and tried to restrain Ben from throwing a kick in his direction.

"Not my father, you moron!" he swore, "Or else I won't pay for your shopping."

About seven-ish, with Ben now sporting his new Scooby-Doo t-shirt that got him many weird looks, they ended up in a party in an exclusive posh nightclub which many of his father's friends usually attended. Ben had passes for it, being the only son of the club's founding member. And after lots of sitting, talking and drinking and photographing, not to mention the disco dancing and the drinking games and the drunken guy-embrace with Randy vowing that they would never be apart (and stupid fights about who knew London and the various details like soil profile and geography of the city better than Ben did), they were expelled from the club, at which point Randy had a fight with the security and Lizzie and Gloria had to drag him away, being the only sober ones. Lizzie took the driver's seat, seeing that Ben was in no condition to drive.

Being thrown out of the club at half past ten didn't mean that the fun was over for them. Dysenteric street food was an absolute requisite and they feasted on Chinese food, stealing it from each other's trays, having tried, unsuccessfully, to pay the street vendor with Ben's credit card, and been forced to split the bill between them. Ben was, by now, almost passing out on the bonnet of his car, having been called a lightweight by Randy, but he had enough awareness left to mutter 'idiot' in the poor street vendor's direction.

As Lizzie drove his car back to drop all of them off, Ben, sitting beside her, constantly screened her eyes with his oversized palms and she was forced to repeatedly slap his hand away. He put his feet up against the windscreen to block her view of the street and took a photograph of his trainers against the city's late lights, of Lizzie's annoyed face and of the happy couple in the back seat. Sticking the top half of his body out of the window, he let the cool night breeze flow through his hair, feeling like he was the king of the world.

Because he was. Everybody around him sat worried about something or another. He, on the other hand, went on, lived on. Loved his life.

This was what Ben loved, allowing time to fly by over long drives, parties that stretched well past dawn, and endless hours doing absolutely nothing. Anything to forget the rigorous and restrictive regime of the London School of Economics.

After driving all around London till dawn, Lizzie dropped Gloria and herself home, leaving Ben to kick Randy out of his car when he protested against not going back to his house.

As for Ben, it was almost half past four in the morning when he reached his house. He didn't bother to clear up the mess on the back seat, the leftovers and the junk from the street food venture. The maid or whatever servant happened to be in the house would attend to it. Groaning to himself, he groggily dragged his feet up to his room, threw his trainers to one side and collapsed in his bed, drawing his covers up to his chest and snuggling into them like a housecat.

Late to sleep, late to rise, makes a man contented, happy and nice, he chanted.

Just a leaf out of his regular life, that was.

* * *

In the afternoon, Ben was perched on his bed dressed in t-shirt and jeans, one leg hitched up in the air with a smelly grey sock on it, the room looking like it had been struck by a merger of a volcano, a cyclone and an earthquake with the exception of his bed. He gazed at the newly developed photos that he had taken the evening before. Sounds of horns, of birds busy nesting, of people wide awake, working hard and fast, surrounded him along with heaps of crossword puzzles and solved maze puzzles.

"Isn't that Randolph?"

At the sound of his mother's voice, Ben gave a little start but turned back to his photos. He rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed.

"Oh, mama, Jesus!" he drawled and his mother winced slightly at the Lord's name being taken so carelessly, "You _know_ I hate it when you don't knock before entering."

Under his breath, he corrected her, "Also, it's Randy, not Randolph."

Ben's mother, the image of the WWII-era saintly British mum, blindly in love with her son, settled down beside him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders lovingly. Ben paid no attention as he switched to a comic book instead. His mum continued to try for his attention by cuddling him and fussing around him and failed miserably every time.

"I'm your mama," she replied affectionately, messing his already messed-up hair, "Why must _I_ knock?"

An all-suffering sigh. "What do you want?"

The smile faded from her face a little at the bland, unemotional reply. She stared at Ben helplessly for an infinitesimally small moment, wondering why she needed to have an excuse to see her own son. Nevertheless, she hugged him with renewed fervour.

"I. . . wanted to see you. You've been so busy these days with your exams, and then with Randolph and Eliza—"

Ben rolled his eyes. "It's 'Randy and Lizzie', mama. Not 'Randolph and Elizabeth'. You know you really should stop being so stuck up about their names, doesn't suit you."

Her smile faded for the second time, but then, being the patient, loving mother that she was, she ran her fingers through his hair, stroking his scalp lovingly, hoping that Ben would lean into her touch just like he used to when he was eight.

But then, that was when he was eight, scared and little, trusting his mum's protective arms to keep him safe, instead of the twenty-five year old Ben of now, the perfect image of Swinging London, obsessed with fashion and gay rights and the Rolling Stones.

She missed her little boy, wondering how she had lost that chubby little toddler in the course of life. And that set Ben on edge. He was still the same, wasn't he? He didn't feel any change in himself. If he _had_ changed, he would've known, wouldn't he?

"Elizabeth is such a beautiful name, Benny, and you sound like you're sworn to destroy its sanctity and the meaning. Do you remember the story in your Sunday school, Zachariah and Elizabeth, they—"

Ben responded with a preoccupied 'hmm', almost ignoring her, a polite way to say _shut up and leave me alone, now that I've listened to what you have to say_. She shuffled to her feet disappointedly, "Exams went well?"

He graced her with a nod, smiling to himself as he went back and back in his mind to trace how he had taken the particular photo he now held. She smiled to herself, thinking mistakenly that Ben was responding to her, if only a little.

"I'm so proud of you, now that my little baby is a graduate."

No response. She gave up all attempts at drawing Ben's attention to herself, but managed to find something to occupy herself with. With a sudden resolve, she got to her feet and started strutting around Ben's room, cleaning the general mess of it and launching into a lecture that was obviously going to go unheeded.

"It's time you learn some sort of organisation in your life, Benny. Oh Good Heavens, this mess!" She kneeled down to pick up half-eaten KFC cartons piled up with several napkins and leftovers, doing it by herself instead of asking the maid to clean it up.

"Oh dear! Why do you make poor Tim sneak this Kentucky Fried Chicken rubbish into the house all the time? Lucy is such a good cook. I can make something for you if you don't like Lucy's cooking. . ."

Ben kept kicking his pillows absentmindedly, trying to block out her lecture as he went through the photos and noticed his flaws. He went through several issues of Queen magazine piled up near him on the floor, going through only the photography section and admiring the photo shoots of the supermodel Jean Shrimpton. Like most of his contemporaries, Ben was captivated by the influence of the Swinging-era, drawn irrevocably to the world of fashion and photography. His mother, a devout Catholic, called it "the bewitchment" of the young generation.

His mother looked up at the colour television airing _The Flintstones._ With a tired sigh, she got to her feet and switched it off, "I've told you so many times, darling, television will make you blind!"

Ben looked up, annoyed at the thought of potentially having one sense organ less to use, another reason to be bored with the monotony of his home-life. Ben's mother attacked his leather jackets and the overabundance of t-shirts next.

"There's just so many jackets there," she exclaimed, "Give some away to an orphanage, Benny! These don't even fit you. And look at this! Frayed trousers! I'll have to send for the tailor again to sew them back—"

"Mama, that's jeans and _trends,"_ Ben was starting to get irritated, now that she had begun to mess with his belongings. "Stop messing with my things!"

"I'm not messing, sweetheart," she called out in that same diabetic tone, the same one he associated with Gloria. "You're a man now, not a boy," she said fondly as she placed the clothes carefully in the wardrobe and went to fold another batch of his t-shirts, "Be mature. Wear shirts. You'll look so handsome—"

This was Ben's breaking point, as he turned angrily to his mother, "I am, and _always_ will be handsome. Why do you have to irritate me so much?!"

Undeterred by the bitterness in his words, she continued folding his t-shirts. Irritated beyond belief, Ben snatched the one she was holding from his mother's grip and looked into her startled, confused eyes, "Don't touch my things, how many times do I have to tell you that?!"

He threw the t-shirt onto the bed and collapsed on it, turning away from her worried eyes. He tried his best to suppress the guilt inside him at having spoken to her like that by staring with extra focus at the magazines. His eyes followed her defeated figure walking out of the room. She didn't try her placating smile anymore, not even to herself. Ben heaved a sigh heavy with remorse and grabbed the t-shirt, hurrying after her.

"Mama!" He handed her the t-shirt as she turned to him, no anger or retaliation written on her face; just boundless patience, just listening to him, "Here it is, fold it." It was neither a request, nor an order, just a sentence with no hidden meaning, or intention behind it, just like Ben, most of the time.

She looked at it and extended her hands towards it slowly, as if almost afraid that Ben might bite, but then he smiled a little half-smile, and his mother smiled back fondly, folding the t-shirt reverently as if it were the most important assignment ever given to her. He ruffled his hair, and his mother smoothed it and handed the t-shirt back to him.

"Dinner, with us tonight?" She asked him hopefully, "I'll cook the best Kentucky Fried Chicken for you, if you want."

Ben gave her a shy nod, "Jesus, mama," and she flinched again, upon hearing the Lord's name leave Ben's lips so casually. "You can't; you'll need _secret white chicken spices_ to cook that."

"You shouldn't take the Lord's name like that, dear. It's not a good habit."

"Alright, mama."

She smiled and cupped his right cheek, then left, humming a predictable tune to herself.

* * *

On the dinner table, Ben was checking out the photos of the latest E-Type Jaguar in one of the magazines that Randy had passed on to him.

"Whoa, what a car, man," was all that left his lips in unconscious appreciation. His mother was somewhere in the kitchen, preparing dinner instead of the usual cook, and his father was watching him carefully, his business eyes noticing how Ben twirled the car keys in his fingers as he went through every single feature of the new car, his eyes shining, looking at the model with longing.

Ben's father, Richmond Holmes, owned a company. He had inherited his father's company, for which he had toiled hard and fought like wolves and lions alike to steer through the Great Depression after his father had put a pistol in his mouth. His shirt was perfectly tucked in even after after-hours, his perfectly-straight tie was done up like a noose around his neck, and he had a way of looking down at you like you were still that six year old child who had just come crawling in from outdoors, tracking mud across polished white tiles, and nothing Ben did would ever be good enough for him.

But then, Richmond Holmes and Ben's mother Sarah belonged to the hard-working and much-suffered WWII generation, a hard, a most difficult time which had left a permanent impression on youngsters of that generation. His reaction to Ben's slacker attitude and the hipsters' influence was natural.

Rich was a balding man, having left behind his middle age a long, long time ago, and now his face was covered in wrinkles and bags that looked like they had been there for eternity. He poured himself a drink and settled down at the head of the table with some files in his hand, "Benjamin, join my company to work."

Ben raised his eyes from the cars and looked at his father disbelievingly. His father's eyes bored into him, looking like he had been expecting the reaction. His sentence was framed as neither a request nor a suggestion. It was a plain order, full stop. Expecting to be obeyed and followed to the letter, and not to be overridden or ignored or even rolled eyes at. That would be utter blasphemy.

And yet, Ben could easily let out an incredulous laugh straight into his father's serious, lined face, "Whoa!" He looked like he had been about to say something along the lines of 'cool it, daddy-o', but instead he straightened up in his chair. "Work?"

"As a junior, yes," his father continued, speech and composure at the pinnacle of sobriety. "You have the knowledge, the skills required. You'll also have the opportunity to get to know about a well-renowned company as mine. Remind me, were three years at London School of Economics a holiday to you?"

Ben still looked confused, as he slowly shook his head. "But where did _work_ come from all of sudden?"

"University is over, correct?" His dad spoke as if joining his company was the most obvious thing to do after university. Which it probably was, but Ben simply stared at his father like an idiot and managed a little nod, his mouth open and his eyes assessing his father's guarded face.

"No lectures left to skive off anymore."

The tone was scornful and sarcastic, but Ben simply let out a simple "yeah", like that didn't affect him at all. He frowned a little, blinking twice, intentionally looking more confused that he was.

"Good, so you're joining us for work." Rich nodded and returned to sipping the brandy contentedly with the air of a man who always gets what he wants. He signed a few documents, as Ben watched him charily. He knew how to fake his father's signature and he wanted to scream to the world that he knew how to forge one of the most complicated signatures he had ever set his eyes upon, but he didn't need to know about that, did he?

He sat back and considered his father's not-at-all-unanimous decision, and then in a stronger voice, he protested. "But. . . dad. . . what am I going to. . . _do there_?"

He knew nothing, nothing of accounts or economics or even basic bookkeeping. His dad was unknowingly right. Three years of college had been a trip after all.

What in God's good name was he going to do in an office, and particularly in his own father's company, right under his nose, probably at a desk adjacent to his dad's office so that there would be this dark, brooding shape behind him, telling him to do things the way that the company expected, mocking him for every single mistake and looking at him like he was vermin under his father's feet?

In the same place, in the same desk, facing the same clock and sitting in the same chair with the same people around him every day, every minute, every second. . . he would go mad. God knew his life was monotonous at home, and now an office?!

"Work, obviously," said his father in his usual simpering voice. "I didn't think I'd have to tell _you_ that, not when you proclaim to be so clever."

Ben didn't know if he could do it, no, he couldn't do it, of course not. It was stupid and lame, work, when put against nightclubs and parties. Of course it was lame and so un-cool. He would have to persuade his father to rethink his decision, by making him understand that the office was just. . . another thing and he was a completely different entity, that he would be making the worst decision of his life by employing Ben of all people.

"But, dad. . . the office?" Ben tried to smile helplessly under Rich's authoritarian glare and raised eyebrow, "I mean. . ."

"And here we go," Rich sighed to himself, avoiding looking into his eyes and having to confront a Ben in full-protest mode. He looked like he knew exactly what Ben was going to say to him.

"I mean. . . our company is a. . . bathroom furnishing manufacturing firm. Flower Shower's the leading brand name. . . I mean, _Flower Showers_?! Seriously? What in God's name is Flower Showers?!" He tried to suppress a gag reflex at the disgusting showerhead brand name, "It's just not my thing!"

Rich turned sharply to him, "_Just not your thing_?! Those showerheads have been ranked number one by the Bathroom Fitting and Furnishing Association. It's our showers that are fitted everywhere, be it in Audrey Hepburn's bathroom or in the common bathrooms of the University of London! Do you understand what that means?!"

Ben kept staring at his father like an idiot, probably wondering how the hell his dad knew that Audrey Hepburn had _Flower Showers_ fitted in her bathroom. He planned to tell his mama about that one.

"That means," Rich continued impatiently, emphasizing the slogan of Holmes Bathroom Furnishing, "Our company has taught the English to bathe in luxury, with pride!"

Ben kept staring at his father, only this time he thought that his dad was an idiot. With a disgusted expression and narrowed eyes, he let out a strident, "No!"

"NO?" Rich asked, totally nonplussed, as if asking in that monosyllable what Ben meant by 'no' when it was clear that Holmes Bathroom Furnishing/Flower Showers had indeed taught the English to take pride in cleansing themselves.

That sounded so much worse on paper than in one's head.

"No!"

"No?"

"No way, dad. NO WAY!" He protested. He grabbed his backpack, quickly packing his things into it to go to Debra's farewell party, even though he really didn't want to go. But right now, he was glad that the conversation was coming to an end as a result of his rush. Ben ruffled his untidy curly hair and slung his backpack over his good shoulder as his father began to speak again.

"Very well, but I have been thinking how good this car would look in our driveway."

Ben came to an abrupt halt in his tracks. Yes, he was in love with the Thunderbird that was waiting for him in his garage, but then his affair with Jaguar was entirely separate from that. He turned to Rich who was watching him calculatingly. Ben gave out a humourless laugh, "You're not serious. . ." but sobered up quickly, "Are you?"

"Six months, regularly. The car is yours." Rich had to resort to bribery to induce Ben to come to work. Ben stared at him in dismay, looking like he had just been asked to carry the weight of the entire world on his shoulders and then kicked in the behind for accepting the responsibility.

"Six?!" He began disbelievingly, "Six months?! That's too much, dad. . . Fifteen days."

Rich looked up from the documents he had been going through, "Do I look like a fool to you?! At least ninety days!"

This time, Ben put on a puppy dog face that he knew didn't work on his dad but it was still worth a try, "Let's say. . . twenty days—"

"Minimum sixty days," his father overrode him by raising his voice over his in an exclusively non-negotiating tone. But Ben was not an employee, he was his own son. That tone never really worked on him, not when Ben had no fear of being fired from his own home.

"Thirty days, not one day more," it sounded like an ultimatum coming from Ben's mouth which his dad accepted quite reluctantly. Rich straightened up and even though Ben was taller, it seemed like he was still looking down at him, "Thirty days?" he asked him, as if giving him a window to reconsider his decision.

Ben wobbled a side-to-side nod, at which his father only narrowed his eyes sceptically, "You're not sure about it."

Ben knew his dad would fall for it. After all, what human being in God's name was going to work for Flower Showers for more than a week? "In India, this means," he coughed to cover it up, "yes." Once he had the car, he would tell his father that he wasn't sure after all, he grinned inwardly.

His dad returned to his files casually, "Good. In that case, I expect you in the office from tomorrow onwards."

His heart sank again. "_Tomorrow_. . .?"

All for the sake of the car, he thought. Only thirty days, after all, how long could thirty days be. "Alright. . . by the way, dad," he shot his father a smirk at the incredibility of their whole really, really simple arrangement, "What kind of deal is this? A Jaguar for a thirty-day trial run at the office?"

His father returned the smirk as he pocketed his pen, "My work-shy son's going to be working. What deal can better that?"

With a silent scrape of the heavy chair against the floor, Rich got up and left the room, leaving Ben wondering if that was supposed to be congratulations or disguised mockery. He heard his friends calling for him and grabbed his backpack and his jacket. His mum came marching out of the kitchen with the dinner, followed by the cook and Tim the houseboy, beaming at him and drawing his attention to the lovely looking pie, "Benny—"

"Oh," Ben heaved a guilty exhalation. "I'm so sorry, mama. I forgot, my friends are here. I'm going out tonight."

Her happy smile faded and instantly turned into maternal worry, "Look at you, so thin and lanky. At least have some—"

"I'll be working from tomorrow onwards. Last time, please, okay?" He cupped her cheek and gave her an air kiss, "Bye. Love you."

With that, he rushed out of the house, leaving his mum pouting, staring after him, feeling exasperated.

* * *

Ben saw the world through the lens of his camera, fitting it perfectly into his frame like everything always did. He clicked away at everything: the disco ball glimmering over all the heads, the glittering stars and floating balloons which were a disgusting addition to the rest of the disgusting decoration spearheaded by Debra and her team of halls girls, the huge banner saying "Summer of '69" in curly, misshapen calligraphy, another banner decorated with electric fairy lights saying "Farewell, Batch of 1969".

Ben focussed his lens on a group of girls dancing nearby, who all tossed their heads in his direction, with one or two even bold enough to give him air kisses. Ben gave them all kisses too and proceeded to capture a very annoyed Debra, announcing something into the mic which went unheeded as a result of the Rolling Stones' _Honky Tonk Women_ playing over her practically screaming. So appropriate.

On the same record, on the B side: _You Can't Always Get What you Want_. Ben snorted to himself at how appropriate it was going to sound with Debra sulking and scowling. Even more appropriate than the one currently playing.

Lizzie was off somewhere fighting her internal diet-no-diet struggle. Ben moved around aimlessly, capturing various moments with his camera: his peers talking about their after-college lives, their job prospects, planning their spring weddings, their dreams taking flight after having survived the terrible four years before graduation.

"Hey, Stella," Ben called a girl blending in with the new miniskirt fashion, asking her what seemed to be the most popular question of the evening, "What's you plan after college?"

She preened her hair and smirked at him flirtatiously. Her false eyelashes were a sight too long, Ben decided, and her makeup too much for the taste of any boy she might want to get laid with. Well, condolences to him.

The next set of words were so outlandish that Ben let his ears take a break.

"I'm prepping for Miss Universe. Since last year, in fact. Dieting, exercise. . . Hey, wanna feel my abs?"

Ben looked thoroughly disgusted at that, and walked away, rolling his eyes. He never really understood such girls. He walked aimlessly, towards two of his peers standing by the punch bowl.

"Hey, have you watched _To Kill A Mockingbird_?" one guy was saying to the other, ". . .To tell you the truth, it's the story of my life."

"I know, mate."

Yeah, the party sucked. Totally.

"I've decided for real this time," Ben turned around to find a group of girls sitting at a distance from the dance floor and chatting among themselves about their plans after college, "I don't want to be a journalist. I can't handle this tabloid nonsense!" The other girls nodded in unanimous agreement.

"Randy!" came a high-pitched female voice from somewhere behind Ben. He turned at once at the familiar name, only to see Gloria standing there, looking irritated beyond belief, her false eyelashes coming apart. He smiled internally at the memory of Randy complimenting her eyelashes in a lovesick poem he had composed for her, at which Ben had blurted out that it was donkeys who had "beautiful long eyelashes". Even though Ben's exclamation had been completely innocent and unintentional, the scandalised look on Gloria's face had been priceless.

He stared at the white top she wore, with two large, tomato red letters 'V' and 'E' printed in capitals and mounted on a platform, which was being pushed towards her right by a caricature girl.

"Randy, it's a tacky, not a party. I want to go home."

"This is tacky," Ben corrected under his breath, still unnoticed by the couple, "Learn your articles, girl." Although, he couldn't agree more with her.

Ben felt like he had fallen from a tree when he saw Randy's outfit: A similar white t-shirt with the tomato red letters 'L' and 'O' printed in capitals and mounted on a platform, which was being pushed towards his left by a caricature boy.

He really hoped that Randy would not propose marriage (or mar-I-age, as Ben preferred to call it) to her, if she even understood what it was. She was such a bad influence on his poor best friend. There couldn't be anyone worse than Gloria. Randy would end up a virgin after all.

"Baby, not everybody's perfect like you," he smiled like a mother would, patient and understanding, "Cheese and crackers?"

Yeah, Ben thought sadly, Randy was definitely going to end up as a virgin.

Gloria rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "I know that! I want to go home, Randy," She protested, turning away, "I'm going home—"

But despite everything, Ben noted how happy Randy was around her, and that was the only reason he tolerated Gloria at all. Sometimes he did wonder if being in love, if being with a girl could really make a guy happy just by being there, just by being present, just like that. He wondered how. And why.

"But baby," Randy called after her imploringly, ending Ben's introspection about having a proper girlfriend, "Let's have the cheese and crackers first—"

"Randy, do you love cheese and crackers more than me? Jesus! And what did you mean by 'not everybody'? Is there someone as perfect as I am that you know of?"

And that's why Ben preferred the unadulterated freedom of being single.

He tried to recall why he had come to the party at all. He would've been merrier with the pie his mama had baked for him. He turned around, safely slinking away from their bickering and arguing lest Randy spot him and try to convince him not to let Gloria leave.

Slouching his shoulders, deep in thought about it, he made a couple of balloons burst into nothingness, his ears absentmindedly tracking the recent Beatles song that was playing in the background, when he saw her.

Ben blinked twice, a furrow marring his eyebrows, and without any other thought, he raised his camera to his eyes trying to fit her perfectly into the frame. Although she was curled up on the stairs outside the halls, scribbling something into a journal-like book in her lap, with a bag sitting near her, spilling its contents out. . . although she seemed small, Ben really couldn't fit her into the frame of the camera. Something always seemed to be missed out, her bag, or the top of her head, or the side of her arm. He stepped backwards, and she did fit now, from a distance. Satisfied, he took a picture of her, the light of the party falling on her back while she remained oblivious to his presence, her back to him, and turned towards the street where most of them were facing the hall.

She didn't belong here, was the first thought which came into his head.

She wasn't wearing any designer clothes and the simple clothes she was wearing were rumpled with travel, he could tell that much. Her light-shaded hair was short, as was the current fashion, and a few strands were askew, as if she'd just jumped off a train. She had her back to him, but Ben could already tell that she would have very little makeup on her face, unlike the rest of the girls inside. And yet, despite her clothing, she looked mature, grown up, like she knew what she wanted to do, like she was clear about it and didn't need to tell others loudly like the rest of his peers.

Like the eccentric boy that he was, Ben proceeded to click more photos of her even without asking her for permission. He focused the lens on her fingers writing some sort of "mathy-equationey" stuff that was mostly jibber-jabber to him, on the right thumb which was broader than the left one as a result of writing too much, and at the way she twirled the pen between her finger unconsciously when she looked like she was in deep thought. She looked up towards the loud, splashy neon boards spilling advertisements all over the street and exhaled a deep breath.

What he had thought of as no makeup turned out to be minimal, with some lip gloss and just a touch of eyeliner under her eyes. But she didn't need that, he thought, as the lens of his camera focused on her eyes, eyes like the pale blue fire that flared when you first lit a stove, and eyes like the frost accumulating on metal pipes in winter. He was just about to click the picture when she realised that she was at the centre of some unwanted attention. With a startled look, the pale blue seemed to become grey, clear like water and yet all muddled up with alertness. She turned and at once shielded her face from him.

"Stop!"

A frantic skitter of thought screeched through his brain: the drop that trickled down the back of Ben's neck—was that water or sweat? It was too much to process, all at once. He had been caught clicking photos of a girl he had never even seen before, but that wasn't the first thing that came to him. It was the feeling that he had tried so hard, worked so much for that one shot and she had to move and shield her eyes at exactly the wrong moment, like a golden moment had popped away so much like a soap bubble. His hard work, all gone to waste.

Ben lowered his camera, and for the first time, his eyes travelled over her face without the barrier of a lens. He frowned a little in confusion, as if wanting to ask her why he should stop when she clearly had a face for the camera, but she readily supplied the answer.

"Why're you taking photos of me?" she demanded, sounding defensive. Ben recoiled a bit at the little edge of viciousness which came into her voice.

He pouted, looking a little confused, and a bit intimidated, "I—I am a. . . I'm a photography student," he lied, "I—I take photos of everything. . ."

Her face relaxed, "Well, don't." She closed her book and put the cap neatly on her pen, "I don't like being photographed, especially in a portrait."

Ben relaxed in relief as well, which quickly turned into genuine confusion again, "Why not?"

She looked up at him and shrugged her shoulders, a _remind-me-why-are-we-having-this-conversation-again_ smile blooming towards the left side of her cheek, "Because. . . I don't look good in photos, that's why."

Ben let out an incredulous chuckle, as if he couldn't believe her, but then he remembered that girls had a way of downgrading their appearances, even if they were really gorgeous. He had heard so many _Am I pretty?_ or _Do I look fat?_ or _You think she's prettier than me, don't you?_ from some of the flings he had had that he thought that this one was doing that same thing too.

"I think you'll. . . look good, if only you smile a bit, you know," he said truthfully. Because she would. He had the eyes of a photographer after all, and she looked a lot like the upcoming fashion models in magazines. Okay well, maybe with a _little_ touch-up, she definitely would.

She paused for a moment, took his words in, and looked up at him long enough to throw him a pleased smirk, the same, lopsided one. But she didn't bask in his praise for long as she stood up and deposited the journal in her bookbag. "Some other time, okay?"

Ben smiled her a farewell, and then, slouching and running his fingers over his beloved camera, he turned to rejoin the party he had almost run away from. His mind was still brimming with the unfamiliarity of her. He turned to her again, giving in to curiosity.

"Are you from our college?"

She turned to him again, all alertness and scepticism clear as a red light visible through fog as an uncertain smile danced around the corners of her lips, "No."

He nodded, "Thought as much. You look old."

This time, she let out a disbelieving snort at his remark. Of all the things that a man could say to a woman during the first impression stage, picking up on her age and calling her old was definitely not one of them, but Ben didn't realise it.

"Thanks!" She spoke sarcastically, "Only a little, I hope?"

He shrugged his shoulders, approaching her again. "Then why are you here at _this_ party?"

Ben could detect a slight annoyance and uncertainty from her side, but he continued to wait for her reply. She frowned a little, wondering why this guy wouldn't leave her be, but then she replied instead of storming off like he had expected her to, "I came with some of the girls from the working women's hostel and . . . you know—um—Debra? She asked me to wait here, actually. She's the organiser of this event—"

"Wait a minute," Ben's eyes grew wide, and he led her to a side, "You. . . came with _Debbie_-Debra?"

She bit her lower lip and her eyes narrowed, "Yeah, what's wrong?"

Ben forced a chuckle out of his throat, looking around for any sign of Debra hovering around, "I really don't know what she'll do when she sees me with you—"

Words turned to ash in his mouth and the rest of the chuckle bubbling up from his chest got stuck right there. Following Ben's gaze, she turned in the direction of the noise. Panic rang out like ambulance siren in his ears at the sight of Debra standing right there in front of the two of them, holding two cups of punch in her grip. Debra looked at Ben as if he was the last thing she needed her eyes to settle upon. With a huff and a roll of the eyes, she stomped out of there, leaving Ben's new acquaintance completely bemused as she followed Debra's retreating figure with her eyes. Ben lowered his eyes. Sometimes it stung him to think that he could arouse such intense animosity in certain people.

"Okay," she stole a glance at Ben just to see what had set Debra off so much, "what's wrong with you?"

Ben gritted his teeth and let out an exasperated sigh, "Jeez, I wish I knew." He turned in the direction Debra had disappeared and called out loudly, "Moron!" and turned back to her, speaking confidently, "Anyway, you're in luck. My company's infinitely better than hers."

She quirked her eyebrows, looking at him challengingly, "Oh, is that so?"

Ben nodded. "Really! I rarely joke about things," he drawled, deadpan.

"Okay," she glanced over him from top to bottom, her eyes assessing him, it felt like an X-Ray to him. Because when she looked at him, hell, at anyone at all, she _really_ looked at them, straight through them, he thought, because it felt like it. Straight to the core of him, down to everything that he used to be and up to everything that he was, and perhaps everything that he was going to be. She made him feel a little like his outsides were glass and his insides were a museum. Such a gaze should've felt like a warning bell for him, because it was not much different from what his father gave him sometimes—"

"Let's give it a trial run then," she smirked. And Ben, ignoring the irrational warning bells in his head, led her readily back into the party he had come to hate. He took a look at her fiery, frost-like eyes, and he followed inside like a dog being called by his name.

There were indeed a lot of good things put up for trial run.

* * *

**Review please? All the hate, or all the (luckily) love *makes the Sherlockian puppy face***


End file.
